


With A Whimper

by jane_potter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drunkenness, M/M, Other, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Say what you like about the nature of demons, but Crowley's always been an optimist. Not hopeful, exactly, just... keen on the future. Even though right now it looks like there might not be much of that left to come-- well, hey, that's what they said a decade ago, right?</p><p>But even Crowley thinks that it's a sad state of affairs when angels start falling for trying to save the world. There's one on his bed right now, two steps from human and two bottles past tipsy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With A Whimper

**Author's Note:**

> Written ages ago for Porn Battle XIII, the Lucky Thirteen. Prompts: fallen, drunk, inconsolable. Not sure why I didn't post it earlier.
> 
> Tagged as both "male/male" and "other" because Castiel and Crowley are what I interpret as genderless beings who happen to be inhabiting "male" bodies and using the corresponding pronouns for convenience's sake.

Say what you like about the nature of demons, but Crowley's always been an optimist. Not hopeful, exactly, just... keen on the future. Even though right now it looks like there might not be much of that left to come-- well, hey, that's what they said a decade ago, right?  
  
But even Crowley thinks that it's a sad state of affairs when angels start falling for trying to save the world. There's one on his bed right now, two steps from human and two bottles past tipsy.  
  
"Hanging around the wrong people," Crowley mutters, scowling at his carpet instead of the blue-eyed vessel sprawled against the headboard with a wine bottle in hand, staring blurry-eyed up at the ceiling. "Gets 'em every time."  
  
Castiel grunts, jolted from his haze. "I... should go." He reaches vaguely out in an attempt to put the bottle down on the side table.  
  
Crowley swipes the bottle before it hits the floor, refilling it with a quick shake. "To do what, exactly?" he asks.  
  
Castiel's fingers close around the neck of the heavily sloshing bottle automatically, but he doesn't drink. He stares at Crowley, and Crowley stares back, inwardly cursing his sunglasses. They block out the blue of Castiel's eyes, but not the desolate emptiness of them.  
  
"God," Castiel slurs, as though it's an explanation he's been clinging to for months. He probably has been. "I have to--"  
  
He stops dead, his whole body hunching with pain as it catches up to him. The sound he makes halfway between a scoff and a sob. Then he drains the bottle with a kind of angry desperation. It's a little bit impressive.  
  
 _They say you're the one who made God change his mind_ , was what the angel had accused when he'd appeared out of nowhere on a busy London street with a sword to Crowley's throat, his eyes wild and furious. _You, a demon._  
  
Crowley had smelled alcohol on the vessel's breath, and sensed the hairline fractures in the angel's composure, like it was just about ready to burst into shards of powdery glass. _Er_ , he'd said, eloquently.  
  
 _Where is God, then?_ Castiel had demanded aggressively, as though he were demanding it of the world. _Why did he stop the last Apocalypse for_ you _and not for me_?  
  
Crowley still wasn't quite sure how he'd talked the angel up into his flat, except that the sword had been good motivation. With hardly any prompting, Castiel'd started in on Crowley's alcohol with a ferocity that had surprised Crowley. But then, rather than slipping out the door and running as fast as possible (which had been the next part of the plan), Crowley had somehow ended up sitting on the bed next to Castiel, watching an angel fall.  
  
"Stop that," Crowley says crankily, taking the nearly empty bottle away from Castiel because the sight of that much raw, bleeding pain is making him think too far back in his own past. It's just-- there's wrong and there's Wrong, and this is _Wrong_ , is what it is, an angel as bloody _Good_ as this one drowning in all the filth of physicality. Angels this soft inside...  
  
Hell wouldn't have had a hope of containing Castiel a year ago, Crowley can tell that much. But right now, Hell could tear Castiel apart and he wouldn't have a chance, the poor fool, pathetic and swaying and all but tearing himself apart in despair, all because he hung out with the wrong people, and when he falls all the way it's just going to be him and the Pit, nobody there for him, nobody to smooth his wings or touch him gently or stroke his stupid rumpled hair, just--  
  
Castiel makes a muffled noise when Crowley kisses him, something broken in his throat, but he goes easily back on the pillows as Crowley pushes him down, slithering on top of him. Castiel's hands are in his hair and Crowley's tongue is in Castiel's mouth, and it's not clear at all who's making it this _desperate_ but it really, really is. He just needs to not see that look in an angel's eyes ever again, and that's all.  
  
Crowley doesn't know what he's doing, or why (no he does _not_ know why, no clue, nothing at all to do with him, because Crowley _sauntered_ just fine, thanks very much). He does know that he's kissing Castiel and getting kissed back, all tongue and desperation and no finesse, so he keeps on doing that, moving against the angel in this slow, rocking push of clothing and shoes against down-filled comforter while silent tears slide down Castiel's face and Castiel holds onto him like a dying thing. The angel's mouth tastes like Sauvigon Blanc and the taint of dying Grace.  
  
There's wrong and there's Wrong, and then there's the unspeakable.  
  
Beneath him, Castiel is trembling and tattered and drunk, red-eyed with the kind of anguish that goes so deep it's mute and frozen, lodged unmoveable in Castiel's core. Crowley's not going to be managing to console him any time soon.  
  
"'M sorry," Crowley tells him, his throat stuck tight, because nobody says that to the poor fools in Hell who just got unlucky enough to pick the wrong friends.


End file.
